


Hold My Hand Through the Storm

by Seitos_Irony



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, I Will Go Down With This Ship, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 03:07:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9579698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seitos_Irony/pseuds/Seitos_Irony
Summary: [Minor Bruiser AU] It was almost impossible to sever them; even if they whined and batted at each other and Tooru would always chirp about what a heathen Hajime was (he thought was just so amazing, using new vocab words), there was always a space that was left a little bit too empty if one of them was without the other. The space that would be the perfect fit for one of Hajime's intolerant shoves or Tooru's repetitive and failed attempts to summon alien-demons.It's that sort of space that lets Iwaizumi know he lets Oikawa too close to his heart; those sort of moments that make Iwaizumi realize he would rather see a bruise on his own face than see one on Oikawa's. And thus it's no surprise when in his later years of junior high, Iwaizumi starts to wake up with injuries that aren't his own.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I have actually never read the book Bruiser- i just know that its main character is able to feel the injuries of other people?? and well watching haikyuu, idea + masochist oikawa = fan fiction urges. please don't hurt me.

He's four when he first meets Oikawa Tooru, his neighbor four houses down in the well-kept residence painted sky-blue. His mother and Tooru's mother are friends nearly the instant they meet each other, but the same cannot be said for their sons- Hajime decides that Tooru is too sniveling, too whiny to be around, so he quickly runs away from their cheery mothers and wriggles, without a second thought, underneath a white picket fence that's not his own. He ignores the dirt that simultaneously smears itself across his plaid shirt, and with all the grim determination a bug-hunting four-year-old can muster, starts looking for cicadas. 

 

That annoying, whiny brat Tooru, though, persistently follows Hajime, as if they actually have reason to be together-  _go play with your sister, I don't wanna talk to you-_ and even though Hajime's trying to look for more bugs to add to his collection,  Tooru does nothing but get in the way-  _but she's with **her** friends, Iwa-chaaan- _  then, Tooru's insisting that Hajime needs to be more careful, because look what he did to his perfectly horrendous shirt- _wow, I bet you don't even know what that word means_. Hajime tells Tooru to go away, and that he's being an annoying brat-  _that's exactly what he is, anyway-_ and before Hajime realizes it, Tooru's mouth is puckered, and he's biting down on shiny cherry lips to keep them from wobbling. 

 

 _Holy cow,_ is all Hajime can think, astonished, as he watches a fat tear gather on the swell of Tooru's lower eyelid.  _He really is a crybaby._

 

Then, Tooru can't stop it, can only open his mouth to bawl and cry loudly from being called  _exactly what he is,_ sparkling tears dribbling down chubby cheeks. Hajime thoughtlessly rushes forward, clamping Tooru's mouth shut with his own hand, their breaths intermingling as he leans forward, whispering strings of breathless " _be quiet"_ sto Tooru. He hurriedly whips his head around, straining his ears to catch for snippets of paused conversation, praying to the lords above that their mothers hadn't heard because his own mother is  _already_ mad at Hajime for accidentally leaving a jar of live bugs unsealed on the dinner table. When he's confident that they had heard nothing- the flow of conversation only seems smoother, in fact- he sighs with relief and takes a step back. 

 

Tooru's staring at him with wide, gaping eyes, and Hajime stares back at him, gruff and brusque, even for a four-year-old. "What," he huffs.

 

Then Tooru's blinking at him, a wide smile cracking across his face. "Iwa-chan," Tooru starts, eyes starry despite the fact that he was literally on the verge of unleashing torrents of tears mere  _seconds_ ago, "let's play together!"

 

Hajime begins to complain ( Tooru, even if he can stop crying he tries hard enough, is still annoying and bratty) but then Tooru leans forward and jerks Hajime towards him. "Let's play together, Iwa-chan, come  _onn!"_ His voice rings shrilly in the air and Hajime, annoyed, tries to yank back his arm. Tooru, who is somehow strong despite his fragile and dithering appearance, responds with equal force, pulling on Hajime's arm with all his might, because  _Iwa-chan you just moved in, you don't know how long I've been waiting for somebody my age to come here!_ Hajime, annoyed, just continues trying to escape Tooru's grip, leaning back and tugging on his own hand- they're both struggling, now, practically playing a deteriorated version of tug-of-war- and then Tooru's mother calls out loudly,  _Tooru?_

 

Tooru- the helplessly babied, parent-reliant four-year-old he is- responds to his mother's call on reflex, his grip on Hajime simultaneously slackening. "I'm over here!"

 

Looking back on it, all Hajime can say was that it really had _not_ been his fault at all. Hajime hadn't been expecting it, so when Tooru suddenly let go and Hajime didn't,  _naturally_ he had yanked Tooru forward, and just as naturally,it had been too late to stop him when Tooru began to fall. It _really_ hadn't been Hajime's fault when Tooru, uncoordinated, gawky four-year-old oaf that he was, had collided into him.

 

The rest was history-their faces were par, Tooru was falling, Hajime was not, their mothers were looking for them; engraved into both Hajime and Tooru's memory for the rest of their lives would be a fleeting adolescent kiss, too humiliating to reflect upon and too evanescent to ever forget.

 

* * *

 

They become close, as much as Hajime wants to deny it. 

 

Hajime and Tooru had gone to different preschools (he has no idea why, as they literally live thirty seconds away from each other) so they could really only see each other on weekends. Those weekends persist as the most vividly remembered parts of Hajime's kindergarten life, despite how much he initially reproached them; they had spent time together at first only due to their parents' beckoning, but after two or three weeks Hajime had found himself running to the sky blue house with jars in both hands to scare the living daylights out of the pampered crybaby. He would unleash them, shiny cicadas and black pill bugs and squirming rolly pollies, upon the helpless child and would subsequently spend an entire afternoon running away from reprimanding mothers while trying to mollify a stomach that hurt too much from laughing (Tooru's look of horror was always  _hilarious)._

 

The days spent chasing, hitting and mocking Tooru, are nonetheless entangled into a collage of sweet memories; he thinks back on them now with sort of a fondness, ignorant and naive and  _happy_ as they were. He remembers the time where they had been having a race to see who could eat more watermelon and in the competition, Tooru had choked on the peel; he remembers the days where they would run around the neighborhood, knocking over bikes and yelling at each other and breathing in more sunshine than air; he remembers the days where Tooru had collapsed onto his bed, exhaustedly pointed at the sky and claimed that he would sight a UFO some day in the near future ( _just you wait, Iwa-chan, when the aliens come to abduct you you'll be sorry!)._ He remembers almost everything from the days of pre-elementary, not because of some cheesy shit like how Tooru was so important he just couldn't forget him, but more because Hajime sees every moment, every memory shining through Tooru's face whenever he sees the idiot. Those days are the beginning of their friendship, as bizarre and speculative and rocky as it may be; and that friendship is the difference between going to sleep at eight in the night like most children would, and being dragged out of bed when the clock approaches midnight by an overly ardent friend. 

 

As a result of all those days spent breathing the same air, living the same moments and simply taking every step with the other right next to them, Hajime knows Tooru better than he knows himself. Hajime knows when Tooru wants milk bread for breakfast, but won't admit to it because he's afraid of not having it later on in the day; he knows when Tooru wants to cry at something random, like a bird with a broken wing after a storm, but won't because he's scared of being called a crybaby; he knows when, exactly, Tooru will sneak out of the house, find the bird, and bandage the fallen thing. He'll marvel at the idiot's stupidity, but he wouldn't have it any other way because he's just _Tooru;_ and undoubtedly, he'll be there next to him when the time comes, squatting next to his childhood friend with the umbrella Tooru had forgotten in his haste.

 

He knows all the idiosyncrasies and strange tendencies of Oikawa Tooru the same way a watchmaker understands the function of clockwork, and each time there's something caught in the gears Hajime will be there to smooth it over. He is the antithesis to every tear, the unflagging pillar of every shaky bridge Tooru dares cross; he will hold Tooru's hand through summertime, and tease him and kick him and call him a crybaby all throughout, but he knows he'll never let go, even when the sun turns into a storm. 

 

He is there- every step of the way. And somehow, in his scrupulousness of watching Tooru, he fails to realize that the boy himself has become an equally important part of Hajime's life. 

* * *

Tooru had always been a bizarre person, so it hadn't really been much of a surprise when one day, with a white ball rolling in his hands, he had dragged Hajime over to his backyard and convinced him to play.

 

Hajime initially hadn't seen the allure-  _cool, there's a ball, why do I want to hit it?-_ but Tooru's bottomless, almost unfathomable enthusiasm stimulated him, reluctant as he was. He had dropped the bug net he had been holding prior, and then Tooru had shown him how to lower his hips and extend his arms so that the ball would smack into the area below the elbow and above the wrist. It had left his forearms bare and stung in the sun, feeling suddenly exposed and raw; each resilient smack of flesh against ball at first made him wince, with how it hurt, but he got used to the feeling, got used to the pain. Soon, with Tooru's cheering outcries and ebullient eyes, he had learned to use the feeling as a drive. Receiving wasn't enticing, didn't immediately take root and sprout inside him, but it soon built up to a level of enjoyment that Hajime would willingly engage in.

 

Tooru's eyes glimmer whenever he sees the ball. Hajime knows, just by looking, that he has a talent; it isn't striking or overly flashy, but it's there, present in his surprisingly athletic build and natural coordination. But more importantly, he has precision built into his fingertips, has a certain keenness burning inside his eyes; and somehow, with Hajime there right next to him, he feels surprisingly in sync. It's a natural, innate sort of movement; they weave around each other like water and shadow; Tooru, when he teaches Hajime to follow a certain footwork and jump when he tells him to, pushes the ball up with eagle spread fingers. Hajime's eyes are locked on the ball, the turning white sphere; the sunlight passes, the clouds move, something in the air shifts and suddenly everything feels so painfully  _right._ The energy that makes him spring into the air is quickly overshadowed by the rushing movement of his hand; he reaches up, arm moving in an arc, and he's clumsy and young and inexperienced, but it feels so true; he feels a warped sense of rapturous satisfactionwhen his palm goes down to send the ball smashing down into the ground. It flies, soars, shearing away the sluggish laziness of summer and creating a swiftness that makes the air feel funny for a second; he feels the air, the pressure of time, Tooru's presence right next to him, and somehow the word  _invincible_ flashes in his mind. 

 

He lands on the ground, the ball having jumped up again and now rolling around his feet; Tooru's mouth is open too, the thrill of it shining in his brown eyes; Hajime pants a little bit, hands on his knees, and then, almost mechanically, goes to pick up the ball. His hand bumps against Tooru's, who had made his way there at the same exact moment; when their fingers graze, the uneven yet somehow perfect rise of the volleyball firm underneath their hands, they lift their gazes and both break out into a  grin. They're two boys, just barely growing out of the awkward movements of a toddler, just barely shifting into the age of the pre-teen. And that moment, so perfect and precise, makes it feel like they've stumbled upon a secret- _together_ , and now they hold it in their imperfect hands, concealing the shine of it, smiling to the only other person that understands.

 

They know the world is out there, hazy and looming and obscure, but with the ball rolling between them, their eyes holding the gleam of two children who have stumbled upon a treasure trove unbeknownst to the rest of the world, they feel sure in their bodies, delighted in their discovery. And they know, as surely as they know the beat of their heart and the intake of their breaths, that something momentous has happened; something they never want to give up tomorrow or in any part of the future beyond that. It will be a constant, it will be the start of an eternity, the bringer of something neither of them is aware of; it shifts the strings in their hearts, alters the stipulating rhythm of their minds. In that moment, the sun and the ball are enough; Tooru picks it up, and then he brings it in his hands for another set. 

 

Hajime prepares himself for the jump, the swing, the spike.

 

He prepares himself for the moment in which he knows that he's right and sure and steady by Tooru's side. 

 

(In that moment, their worlds were so glorified and brilliant that they had the audacity to scoff at the idea of being home by their mothers' curfew; ha, they had exclaimed, supercilious, looking at the draining sun and descending darkness. They were no children; they could stay outside for longer if they wanted to. When he goes home at eight in the night, long after supper, his mother hits him on the head with the back of his house slipper, and he regrets having doubted his mother's ability to enforce the rules she set up. The next day his ear is sore from being pulled on, and his house slipper is dented in a way that will never be the same, but he doesn't dare regret anything that had happened that afternoon in Tooru's backyard; the magic of feeling invincible is worth it. It's just a pity that it goes away when there's no ball and his mother is yelling at him with another slipper clutched in hand.) 

* * *

 

First grade is like a rollercoaster; memories of ups and downs, plain, uncomplicated days that seem to be infused with all the drama of the sky and the sea- trying to unravel first grade is like trying to unravel a wannabe migraine.

 

It had been no surprise when he realized that by first grade, he and Tooru had been joined by the hip. It was almost impossible to sever them; even if they whined and batted at each other and Tooru would always chirp about what a  _heathen_ Hajime was (he thought was just so amazing, using new vocab words), there was always a space that was left a little bit too empty if one of them was without the other. The space that would just barely be the perfect fit for one of Hajime's intolerant shoves or Oikawa's punctual and failed attempts to summon alien-demons.

 

(Later, when Tooru clamors incessantly about how amazing he must be for Hajime to always accompany him, Hajime compares Tooru to the appendix; its presence constant but useless. An insincere whine follows- one that lets Hajime know that _Tooru_  knows he thinks of him more as one of the heart chambers: half of a whole, the residence of a moiety of his soul.)

 

Elementary school, however, isn't as reciprocating to Tooru as Hajime is; they don't understand Tooru the way Hajime does, the teachers don't soothe him the way Hajime can. Their insensitive peers don't understand that it isn't an attempt to be a teacher's pet when Tooru willingly stays inside for recess, trying to make the second stroke of a kanji perfect; they don't understand that he's simply meticulous, that he can't help but crave for a sense of perfection and will do anything to get it. They don't understand that Tooru is delicate, is a little bit more sensitive than the others; he's different and that makes them laugh, their jeers far more cruel and impactful than any Hajime's kicks. They're jealous of Tooru, who has the entire assembly of elementary school teachers doting on him because of his aptitude to learn and his interest in growth; they're jealous of the boy blessed with parents who will buy him the latest toy figurines and yet refuses to wrestle on the ground for ownership of it because he doesn't want to get dirty. Tooru's different, and the next thing Hajime knows he's crying in corners and sniffling pathetically when his parents pick him up.

 

Since Hajime's in a different class, it would be expected of him to not be able to do much; but Hajime doesn't care about that. He  _knows_ that classmates won't mumble bashful, reluctant apologies to a crying Tooru and try to placate him with promises of milk bread; he knows that the teachers won't be able to wait for him by his side, patient and abiding, as Tooru gets the wing of a butterfly in his latest art project just right. So he marches, untroubled, into the classroom whenever there are breaks; he becomes a part of Tooru's classroom as much as his own, the teacher recognizing him by the end of the first week. He plays with Tooru at recess, even though the rest of his classmates complain and say that somebody like him shouldn't "hang out with that crybaby"; they don't get it, they don't get that Tooru's actually a great friend, and so Hajime finds himself diverting fists and taking hits more often than any first grader should. 

 

He doesn't hesitate, though, because he'd much rather get hit by a clumsy classmate's punch than see Tooru's face crumple inwards from sadness. 

 

So he stands in front of Tooru, angry and a mess each time Tooru's classmates try to hurt him, attempting to spread wings of unapproachable power he knows he doesn't really have but really wishes he did. Because then maybe Tooru wouldn't cry at all, because even though Hajime's the one taking the hits for him Tooru still can't stand seeing anybody get hurt, can't stand not being able to do something right; he cries, and Hajime knows that he's a freaking ugly crier so he tells Tooru to shut up. And when the day's over and Tooru's upper lip wobbles, his cheeks damp, Hajime sighs and opens his arms. He lets a bawling Tooru collapse onto him, knowing that he'll have to wash his shirt when he gets home because he already  _feels_ his right shoulder getting damp. 

 

It becomes a habit over the next couple years, taking hits, growing stronger, throwing some back and then sitting in the back of the room, pretending to sulk but knowing that he doesn't regret a thing. It's still just elementary school, so his parents don't get any notifications. He doesn't really get any strict punishments, either, just a stern talking to, or a five-minute time-out before the ritual repeats itself the next day. 

 

But Tooru starts to change. It starts out subtle at first, but over the course of the next year he changes to smile delicately at his classmates, no longer grinning, ogling and foolish; when the fifth grade crawls by, his natural charm is instead utilized in everyday interaction, frequently enough so he can avoid being teased or hurt. In junior high, however, Oikawa positively  _blooms;_ he's perceptive and manipulative and flattering, composed of daunting talks and flirty smiles; he knows just how to temper his words so he can elevate a demure student's speech or appease a rather belligerent classmate's temper. He's analytic, his eyes waiting, patient and never tiring, always searching for vulnerability, learning to control everything that he can exploit and preparing for all the things he can't. In the battle of minds and wit and the unspoken, Oikawa has locked onto everyone else's coordinate points and is thorough in disguising his own; he's sly, elusive, all the things Hajime isn't.

 

The teachers love him even more than they did before, calling on him every time in class, praising him whole-heartedly on his latest paper or his flawless mathematics score; the girls trip over themselves to shove Valentine Day's chocolates into his hands, and the boys stare at him in awe, talking about what a great role model he is. Even in volleyball, he's a star; he has no amazing talent, but the coordination that manifests itself in each jump serve and the pure precision punched into each flawless set can enhance even the most awkward spiker, something that can be earned only through Oikawa's natural ability to observe others and his utmost dedication tot he sport. He's a hard worker; Hajime knows this, and he sees how Oikawa reaps the benefits. But he's not sure about how feels; he's grown used to the crybaby that sobs into the patch of skin just below his right shoulder, and doesn't quite know how he feels about the Oikawa that handles bullies with a wave of his hand and practically summons girls every time he goes out into the open. But each time he stares at his childhood best friend, Oikawa dissolves into the slob he's been for the past ten years of his life; whining and babyish and crying  _Iwa-chan_ at every given opportunity. 

 

Hajime doesn't know how he feels about this new Tooru, but it's plain that nothing, really, has changed between them; even though the world around Oikawa has started treating him differently, their  _own_ world is still punctuated by the phases of the moon and Oikawa's subsequent alien rituals. He complains about this, one day, when Oikawa tries to rouse him at three A.M. Tooru responds that it'll be worth it, and even though Iwaizumi hates him for it, he reluctantly pulls on his sweatshirt and obliges, following Oikawa outside. That's when he sees his first meteor shower ever, and all he can do is gape, open-mouthed, as flecks of brilliant white rain down in the night sky and Oikawa smiles, half smug and half happy, next to him.

 

That's when Hajime realizes that Tooru is still Tooru- he'll be there to drag him out of the dark if and when need be, but this change, this development in his personality, is just another part of the mass conglomeration named  _Oikawa Tooru._ The two of them, together, have not changed at all. 

 

Yes- nothing, really, has changed between them, and consequently, Hajime complains about how immature Tooru is around him. Tooru just sticks his tongue out at him and responds,  _Iwa-chan is the only one who I ever spend so much time with, he should always be grateful for it, no matter how immature I am!_ Hajime had raised an eyebrow, then said it was more a curse than a blessing. Tooru's resulting cries were satisfying and whiny, and it's so familiar, so _them,_ Iwaizumi can't really imagine Tooru any other way. The nature of their relationship won't change, not when they've held hands through a storm and kept a mighty secret alive in their intertwined fingers. 

* * *

 

He's thirteen when his mother first attempts to tell him. His eyes are wide and confused and focused on just her face as she wrings her hands, and he can't help but look at her anxious eyes despite the fact that it's the words flowing from her mouth that are important. He hesitates, standing there awkwardly with his hands clutched around obtuse bags and the rounded handle of an umbrella; his class is going on a field trip today, to a waterfall, and he and Tooru have been hyped about it for weeks. The tempting memory of gurgling currents, glistening in the warm summer sun, are emboldened in his mind like strips of jewels. He's keenly aware of Tooru's presence outside, waiting for him by the doorway like he's been doing every day for the past seven years, and the lack of noise distinctly disquiets part of him. Because, after all, Hajime should be there with him, right? But his mother keeps him there, her long, gentle fingers so usually caressing instead rooting him down to the ground. 

 

"Listen, Hajime," she says, her voice soft but firm, dappled with the unmistakable touch of seriousness that all children know, innately, to recognize. "You've got to be  _careful_ when it comes to things like this, alright?"

 

"I'm always careful," Hajime replies, a furrow forming in his eyebrows.

 

"No, Hajime-" an identical furrow is created in her own eyebrows as she furrows her lips, precise worry and curtailed love punctuated heavily into her typically fragile features. Hajime had gotten most of his looks from his dad- narrow but strongly defined jawline, tan skin, wayward eyes- but retained his mother's ability to detect shifts in conversation, so he easily adjusts to the sudden dip of ambiance as a pocket of hollowness opens up in his mother's eyes. She sighs, a worrisome, bothering noise that ripples through Hajime and leaves his body feeling incrementally unwell as if the sound has shifted layers of skin and interwoven perceptivity. She glances to the side, and he can see the indentation of teeth biting the inside of her lip. She gnaws on the ski as if there are words that are trying to escape and she's grinding them into her mouth until finally she swallows and stands up. 

 

Hajime looks up at her, tracking her movement with his eyes. He's unusually perceptive for the immature thirteen-year-old he should be-  _but he's always had a knack for sensing what other people want to say-_ and his mother, noticing this, laughs in an attempt to soothe him. "I'll explain it to you when you get back, Hajime. Just make sure you're extra careful on this trip, alright? And make sure nobody else gets hurt, either."

 

Hajime, still confused, can only nod, trying to push away the nagging thought at the back of his mind ( _I don't get why you're telling me this?)._  The feelings of unease, however, are quickly swept away as he runs out into the bright sunshine and sees Tooru's annoying face, hears the singsongy _yahoo, Iwa-chan!_

 

 He responds with his gruff, trademark grunt and scowl. It's second nature to fling his fist forward in a punch as Tooru teases him about how he shouldn't always frown because _Iwa-chan you're going to get wrinkles!_  Tooru, still cackling like the devil child he is, runs to school and Hajime ignores the persistent flapping of his school bag as he engages him in the chase. Moreover, each step he takes towards school is a step further from confusion- but it's not just the distance that beckons him there, Hajime knows. It's because there's always been some part of him, wedged just between the metaphorical space inside his heart and the literal chambers of the organ, that has been willing to give up anything, throw away everything without a second thought, just for the obnoxious boy a mere month younger than him; the obnoxious boy that's been a part of his life the same way the sun is part of the sky. 

 

* * *

 

 When Hajime comes back that evening, his mother has a long talk with him. He sits there, awkward and unsure, balanced on the big black armchair before her bed. He's confused at first, unsure as to what exactly she's trying to imply, but then gradual realization dawns on him. Every family has a secret, every family has a story; it's just that theirs is a little bit stranger, a little bit more  _physical_ than other families'.

 

She shows him for real that evening when his father comes home. His father looks at him and he looks at her, then he sighs briefly. Taking a nearby sheet of paper, he lifts it up and slides it cleanly across his wrist; Hajime watches closely, and can only stare in astonishment when his mother lifts her sleeve and he sees a tiny paper cut nicked into her skin (one he's sure wasn't there before). The red in her pale flesh should have been insignificant but, instead, was dauntingly impossible, undeniably hard to process.

 

His father's wrist is completely clean- unharmed. Hajime swallows as his mother explains the tradition of her family, her unique abilities; Hajime swallows again and stares down at his own body. She can only really take the pain of one other person, and that person needs to be, well,  _special._ Special the way his father is special to his mother; the only time this will happen to Hajime is if he gets somebody special, too. As of now, when he's only thirteen years old, it's not much of a surprise- but he should get the explanation in advance, anyway.

 

He barely hears her as she says that she knows he's strong, she knows he'll be able to deal with it, and hey, at least this way he'll have no way to deny it when he realizes who  _the one_ is. But all Hajime can do is swallow, thinking about how, exactly, he'll be able to bear the burden of this secret.

 

It changes everything; the weight of the secret is huge on him, and this time, Tooru isn't able to help him hold it. 

* * *

 

The next day, he can't quite look Tooru in the eye- the images of all those confessions are stitched across his vision, and Hajime can't help but wonder whether or not Tooru was burdened with the idea of having to think twice about any of them. For the first time in his life, he calls him  _Oikawa_ instead, and he sees the crestfallen look on his face. Tooru-no, _Oikawa,_  asks if something's wrong and if there's anything he can do it fix it. Hajime responds with a simple "nothing".

 

But it's everything, and there's a strange, almost painful sense of yearning inside him that day when they're at volleyball practice and another girl comes walking shyly up to his best friend, a confession letter clutched in her hand. 

 

He's not sure if he's more jealous of Oikawa or the girl; Oikawa for having the right to so easily ignore the possibility of finding the right person, or the girl for being so easily able to give her love to someone she's probably talked to less than three times in her entire life.

 

He's jealous of both of them, he decides, and that day, when he spikes the ball in their practice match (a nearby school had come to play at theirs) he just imagines hitting that stupid family tradition of his, wondering whether or not it would break if he hit it hard enough. His hand stings and one of his juniors yelps in pain when he receives it; Iwaizumi lands on the gymnasium floor, irritated, swiping at his chin and wishing, with all of his heart, that he didn't have to think about this so much; he's just thirteen, there's really no reason for him to worry about it.

 

That day, Oikawa helps him lock up the gym. Before they can leave, though, Oikawa confronts him, demanding to know what's wrong, if it was anything he did; Iwaizumi stares at the determined, earnest brown eyes of the boy who's been such a big part of his life, and realizes he really can't lie to him. But when he opens his mouth to maybe explain a little bit, to just give some of it away, he remembers his mother telling him not to tell anybody, and nothing comes out.

 

He settles for a less major truth instead, saying that yesterday he overheard their juniors talking about them in the locker rooms and their strange closeness. The first name basis was a little bit awkward, more difficult for them to process; for the sake of structure in their team, for the sake of influence, Iwaizumi would refer to him as  _Oikawa._ The knitting frown at Oikawa's mouth lets Iwaizumi know that Oikawa knows he isn't telling the full truth, but then Iwaizumi cuffs him on the back of the head and says that at least now he could call him more appropriate names, like  _Trashykawa._ Oikawa immediately complains, and then the conversation devolves into their typical banter.

* * *

 

The words  _Kageyama Tobio_ are the harbingers of misfortune into Oikawa Tooru's life.

 

They start out as simple, unassuming- they belong to a boy two years junior to him, of tall height and black hair, cut spiky in the front. He has a face that shows nothing but innocence and a burning desire to touch the ball. 

 

But that desire is like a force living in some recess deep inside of him, burning, refusing to disappear, before twisting its way out of him in a gift that emerges with so much demeaning force it can only be properly labeled by the word  _genius-_ to Oikawa, who has been gifted with natural athletic ability but stands unadorned by talent's picky, wreathing hands, it is a slap in the face. To Oikawa, it somehow means that it's time to start staying in the gym, far after practice has ended, with volleyballs rolling around his feet and his hands stinging red from the resilient smack of yet another ball as it soars across the net, fast and far but somehow too little to satisfy the feel of incompetency inside of him. With each volleyball served, with each lap run, with each sleepless night spent examining the ideal posture for a service ace, the yearning sea inside of him grows deeper, until finally, one day in a practice match, Oikawa lands himself on the bench. The sea, boiling, writhing, has only now truly emerged; waves of panic congeal inside his stomach, turning sticky every sense of athletic coordination Oikawa originally possessed. He is a shell ransacked by the title of genius, broken down and pierced by each cry of  _Shiratorizawa,_ of  _setter,_ of the subsequent and self-generated phrase  _not good enough._

 

There is nothing scarier to Oikawa than the idea of trying and trying and not being enough, and that fear emerges every night he spends in the gym. 

 

When Kageyama appears in one of those late-night extra practices, that innocence inside of him nothing but the rearing head of a monster to Oikawa, Iwaizumi knows him better then Oikawa knows himself. He knows the way Oikawa sees talent, knows what will happen before Oikawa even reacts- so he crosses the gym in three strides, snatching away Oikawa's plunging hand. It's almost like the situation they were in about ten years ago when they first met, except this time Iwaizumi's the one grabbing Oikawa, diverting his punch, throwing away the violence that is pulsing inside of him. 

 

He shoos away a bewildered, unknowing Kageyama, the oblivious boy who so clearly reveres Oikawa. He leaves the gym with a genius's footsteps and a volleyball still clutched in miraculous fingers. Oikawa's panting, eyes wide and once again ransacked by the tentacles of panic that have become so familiar to Iwaizumi in the past few months, and before Iwaizumi knows what he's doing he can't help but yell, yell at the boy who has been a part of his heart for the past ten years. He yells at the boy who has insistently burrowed his way into Iwaizumi's life, the boy who's hunched down and rooted himself there until Iwaizumi's annoyance transformed into a steady reliance, keening affection and a defiant sort of friendship. He yells at the boy who used to smile at the sight of a volleyball and is now losing himself in the dreamy, hazy world of fear too dangerous to venture into alone. 

 

 _Can't you see, you idiot?_ Iwaizumi wants to yell, as he rams his head forward straight into Oikawa's nose with an explosive, culminating anger that had been building up for months. Can't he see that nothing good will emerge if he just further thrusts himself into practice, if he just keeps on going, hurtling into life with increasing speed? Can't he see that there are people besides Kageyama and Ushijima, that there's a team waiting behind his back, that there's  _Iwaizumi_ at his back, people who have supported him for what seems like a lifetime now? 

 

He yells and yells and then finally, Oikawa seems to get it when he says, " _there's six people on a volleyball court, you idiot!"_

 

Recognition breaks out across his face, illuminating brown eyes that Iwaizumi knows have been full of nothing but fog for the past few months. There is a dim relief spreading throughout his body as the pervasive look of realization touches Oikawa's face, a beacon reassuring like the light of dawn; he turns down to look at the volleyball rolling around his feet with marveling, dancing eyes, and somehow, Iwaizumi feels lighter than he's felt for months. "A team is stronger with six people," Oikawa repeats.

 

"Yeah, you dumbass," Iwaizumi says, exhausted, every stroke of acknowledgment on Oikawa's face lightening the burden upon his shoulders. And then Oikawa's chastising him, saying something about how Iwaizumi shouldn't have only the word  _dumbass_ in his arsenal, and Iwaizumi fires himself up again, ready to make another headbutt to Oikawa's stupid face. They're chasing each other in the gym, then, Iwaizumi yelling something about how he should "shut up Oikawa's mouth for good", and then all those summers spent playing volleyball with each other and counting stars after sunset finally reemerge from a void of talent and engulfing incompetence. Because, like Oikawa has just realized, they can be stronger, better,  _invincible_ when there's more than one person.

 

They can be invincible- together. 

 

* * *

 

 

The best setter award seems to prove something to Oikawa.

 

He smiles as he receives the shiny plaque with two gracious hands, and the relief that Iwaizumi had felt that night at the gym somehow rekindles itself in his mind. Because as he stares at his best friend, for once wearing a purely natural smile more complimentary on him than any suit, he realizes he's honestly glad that the friend standing there is someone who has finally touched a sky he's been reaching for so long. Recognition, invincibility, progress,  _skill-_ it is proof, glowing in his hands and with his name carved in it, almost set in stone. 

 

With that realization comes the curious reminiscences of all the things Oikawa has composed the past year; poems that have made teachers weep with pride when every other student in the class received a failing grade, art projects that collapsed a second after they were made, pathetic White Day cookies that Oikawa couldn't hope to give to his dozens of fangirls. And, of course, Kitagawa Daiichi's volleyball team- Iwaizumi thinks of every member, every successful spike made possible only by the practiced hands of the _Best Setter._

 

Thinking back to all those afternoon practices Iwaizumi realizes he is no exception- what with the tosses that felt like he had been offered the chance to spit down a piece of lightning. He thinks back to the times he had to borrow Oikawa's clothes for gym class when he forgot his own, and all those mornings spent automatically waiting outside the Oikawa household when he didn't see the familiar head of brown hair outside of his window. Oikawa has twisted together more than just a team, Iwaizumi realizes; Oikawa has made it so that he's such an integral part of Iwaizumi's life even the night sky wouldn't be the same without Oikawa's anxious prayings for _UFO_ 's. He's become the figurehead of worry, prestige and bittersweet remembrance, a dancer who knits musicals in the short stretches of space between dreams and memory; he is an anchor and a balloon, a representation of every extreme, and the only person who can breathe color into Iwaizumi's life as easily as he  waters a flower.

 

As Iwaizumi stares at Oikawa, laughing and somehow on the verge of crying like he was all those years ago, Iwaizumi practically sees his life flash before his eyes- every memory holding a touch of him, whether it be him tossing volleyballs or trying to do parkour or frantically scribbling down answers to the homework mere seconds before class starts. His mind is a blur, overwhelming memories of watermelon seeds, crisp autumn afternoons, and even the starry nights spent running to each other's house- holy shit, Iwaizumi thinks, looking down at his hands, practically shaking before him. Holy shit  _holy shit holy shit-_

 

Oikawa laughs again, and all Iwaizumi can think about is how utterly screwed he is.

 

* * *

 

 

Oikawa works himself hard.

 

Iwaizumi knows it. 

 

He gets to know it better when he wakes up the next morning after a particularly difficult practice. He gets to know it, painfully well, when he falls to the floor with cramps in his knees and calves he knows aren't just his own. 

 

He shuffles to school, Oikawa hovering overprotectively and carefully at his side, preening like a mother goose, curiously sprite despite how draining yesterday's practice was- he even wonders out loud why he shows no signs of fatigue, then laughs it off as luck.

 

Iwaizumi smacks him in the back of his head, grumbles at him to stop being so pretentious, and does his best to ignore the cramping in his legs. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [i've fallen, down into iwaoi hell, grasping onto every breath, as i await the deadly university partings....]  
> dONT LOOK AT ME  
> this will be updated soon *cracks knuckles* (bc oikawa is being stubet and i can't stand it] [because i secretly have fun watching iwaizumi suffer]


End file.
